


Lost in the Musketeers (BBC series)

by Mordaunt



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), Three Musketeers: The Queen's Diamonds (1973)
Genre: F/M, Jasper Fforde, Lost in Austen - Freeform, Thursday Next Mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 15:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10902528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordaunt/pseuds/Mordaunt
Summary: When an avid reader of Dumas and 17th century historian finds herself mysteriously transported into the script of the first episode of The Musketeers BBC Series, things begin to unravel in unexpected ways.And no one is exactly what they were written out to be...Inspired by The Musketeers BBC Series (S1/Ep. 1 "Friends and Enemies), Lost in Austen (2008), and the Thursday Next Mysteries by Jasper Fforde.Also inspired by...history!





	1. The Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoNessa (sunmyano)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmyano/gifts).



_Recording_

“Captain’s Log, Date… Some fictional version of 1630?”

_Be serious. Go._

 

I should have pretended nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I should have minded my own business. I should have ignored her. It is not that I did not try to keep things from unraveling, but it all turned out more complicated than I could ever have thought possible. In the meantime, here is an updated list of “what has gone wrong” since I got here! The King has proclaimed Madame Bonacieux his new _maitresse en titre_ and the Queen is the Cardinal’s most formidable ally and closest friend! Truth be told, the Cardinal is not as you might imagine him. First, he looks like Charlton Heston, not Peter Capaldi! Then, once you get over his arrogance, he is quite agreeable. A great conversationalist. He is definitely borderline something. A tad conspiratorial. And he loves cats. I am allergic to cats. Still he is not as bad as you’d imagine.

Monsieur D’ Artagnan was just promoted to lieutenant in the Cardinal’s Red Guard. Long story. Monsieur Aramis has been enmeshed in a torrid affair with a certain Madame Bessett, the Cardinal’s mistress, who is very much alive. Frankly, I am fine with that but it is still completely off script. Porthos is getting married to a rich widow named Alice. I am fine with that too. Still it is a whole lot of wrong if you are keeping plotline scores. I am not forgetting Athos. I am just not sure I can even describe the Athos-Situation over here. Let’s say, “it’s complicated.”

I should curtsy at this point, but I admit I still cannot do it gracefully.

Then, there is a new guy in town. If you said Rochefort, you guessed right. Intense. A bit bonkers. In a good way. He would make a great drinking buddy. But people don’t do such things over here. Definitely not “ladies.”

Where to begin? So… there I was at the Center for the Topography of Paris in the National Archive, pouring over 17th century maps of Paris for my book. Oh yes. I was writing one, back then; or is it “will be writing one”…one day? Whatever. So here I am. Or there I was. Trying to figure out the cursive on a segment of a map that chronologically corresponded to a 1632 deed I had unearthed in a Harvard archive about a part of Paris called “Court of Miracles.”

You think you know where I am going with this because you watched that Musketeers BBC series?

You’re in for a surprise.

I had reserved that precious time slot at the National Archive in Paris after weeks of emails and phone calls and a recommendation letter from my department head:

“Dr. Frances Mordaunt is a valued junior faculty member conducting book research on poverty and the conditions of the poor in Paris during the reign of Louis XIII.”

My first year as faculty at the History Department in Sorbonne! My first real job after years of graduate school in Harvard. I specialize in the economic history of 17th century France.

What, you might ask, would induce anyone to spend half her adult life studying 17th century French history? Well first it was a bit of family lore. You may have guessed it from my name, if you know your Dumas. My parents have a strange sense of humor. If you don’t know your Dumas, the short answer is that my father claims a distant family connection with the historical character behind Dumas’ Milady de Winter. We know next to nothing about her besides a name, Anne, so in our imagination Dumas works just fine. My mom calls her a goddess and my dad, ever the feminist, cannot hide his pride for his “badass grandmother.” In some ways, it was because of her that I decided to become an historian of 17th century France; her and Dumas. I admit it, although it is not acceptable to bring up Dumas among 17th century academics. Dumas is my dirty little secret. I must have read his books hundreds of times.

I have another dirty little secret. I always had a crush on Athos. You might say it is rather perverted, given, you know, our family history. Anyway, a crush is a crush and, after all, the Dumas character is entirely fictional, so it is all innocent, good, fun. Not dissimilar to having a crush on Mr. Rochester or Mr. Darcy, although I never liked those two.

Back to the National Archive: The librarian (“Call me Marcel”) was unusually accommodating, almost unctuous, but extremely thorough, as they tend to be. He handed me a print out of the visitor protocol. “You have 5 hours every day for this next week with a break for lunch” he declared. I am not sure if he appreciated my appearance. Most librarians I know might frown at the purple streaks in my hair and my nose piercing. I don’t usually look like this at school but I do everywhere else, especially at this time of the year, during summer break.

The librarian’s desk was outside the climate-controlled archive, separated from the rest of the basement with a glass wall. An hour into my work and I swear I heard movement behind the shelves. I had the feeling I was being watched. But then again, I was in a room surrounded by a glass wall and there was a librarian outside.

Day two was the same. Same feeling of being watched, and rustling noises coming from somewhere. “Must be the air condition” the librarian shrugged it off. I wish I had left it there. Day three. The librarian “Call me Marcel” came in during lunch hour. I was not ready to stop, having finally discovered some connection among that old deed, the map, and the “Court of Miracles.” I explained I had to stay. Please? He smiled a friendly smile: “Well…just for you. I will be out for half an hour.” This was far easier than I thought. Usually they do not permit anyone staying here alone. This time it was not just the rustling sounds. It was a clear and loud cough. Just like you cough when you want to catch someone’s attention. I had enough. Was there someone else in here with me? In full ghost buster mode I started checking between the shelves.

She was standing at the back of the room, where, it turns out, there was a real wall. She was wearing some sort of period dress, a velvet red cape over her shoulders, and a large impressive chocker around her neck. She looked exactly like me! Well, minus my entire outfit (jeans, Chuck Taylors, a lace shirt, and a black leather biker jacket), my chopped bob with purple highlights and the piercing through my nose. But still. It was like looking into a mirror only I was dressed like someone from Masterpiece on PBS.

“Hello there” she said, a mocking glimmer in her eyes, “you seemed immersed in that map. If it is the Court of Miracles you are looking for, let me suggest that you will not find it there. Only a fool would actually create a record of what is happening in that part of Paris or how far it extends.”

Wait, what? Did she say, “ _IS_ happening”?

“Excuse me ma’am,” I was unsure what to call her, “what are you doing here? Are you some kind of re-enactor?” In retrospect, that was dumb. What would a re-enactor be doing in a basement climate-controlled archive?

“No” same mocking glint in her eyes, “I am not whatever a re-enactor is. And did you just call me ma’am? I prefer Milady or Madame.”

Maybe book research does this to people? Maybe they lose it? Maybe I did not have enough coffee and I am dreaming? Just in case I pinched myself.

_Ouch._

_OK. Not asleep._

 

“Who are you then…Madame?”

She was clearly amused. “I have many names, but most people know me as Milady de Winter.”

“You are joking right? You are a fictional character! Well, partly. But mostly fictional….”

She looked unconvinced. “I am very real, I can assure you. I have been told to wait for a friend here. I thought this was a catacomb.”

“Curiouser and Curiouser” I thought. I’d love to know, what kind of ‘friend’ meets “Miladies” in catacombs!

“Well this is not a catacomb, although we are underground.” I started explaining. “This is a climate-controlled unit in the national… I am not making any sense, am I?”

 

_What is it called in Star Trek? The Time-Space Continuum Prime Directive or something? Whatever it is called, I was violating it._

 

“No, not really following you at all” she laughed. “Strange place indeed. Extremely bright for a catacomb and I do not see any candles.”

“Look Madame, this was funny five minutes ago but this candid camera joke is dragging too far. I need to go back to my work and you need to go back to wherever you came from. And by the way, where the hell did you come from? I did not see you enter. Were you here since before dawn or something?”

She turned towards the wall. It was an old wall, part of some older structure. “From there.”

I scoffed. “Alright lady… sorry Mi-lady. Enough… This is an old stone foundation.”

I banged my hand against the stones expecting a solid, cold, surface. Only… there was nothing there. Air. An opening?

She smiled a wily smile as she pushed me through. “Well dear, it seems you have found the gate.”


	2. When in 17th Century Paris

That is how it all started. Next thing I knew I was in a dark underground space staring at an actual wall. No opening any longer. No bright lights, shelves, or climate controlled room.

_A catacomb?_

Footsteps.

I turned and saw a priest. He stared at me from my purple streaked hair to my black sneakers but lingered on the nose ring. “The Cardinal will see you now Madame” he said, his voice dripping with disapproval.

“Oh really?” I was entirely unconvinced, “Pray tell… ‘ _The Cardinal_ ’ that this is now ridiculous. I am having none of this…” I may have used an expletive here. No. I am certain I used one.

“Milady you look quite theatrical today!” The voice echoing from the dark recesses of the catacomb was impassive and penetrating. The voice of someone who gives orders. I knew exactly who he was the moment he stepped into the light of the candles. I have seen several paintings of him: tall, lean, and slightly hunched. You could call him handsome. And as I said: he looked exactly like Charlton Heston!

“Are you involved in some performance at court?” I think he was mocking me but I am not sure. In any case, if this was Richelieu and I was in the 17th century, I am sure I looked like an entire theatrical production all by myself. But I was still not convinced this not some silly reality show. I decided to play along. I had not read the Dumas’ books hundreds of times and spent half my adult life studying the 17th century for nothing!

“Well, I thought I would disguise myself Your Eminence, after that little incident at Meung. You never know who may be a spy.”

_Take that! How well do you know your Dumas?_

He was irritated. “Why were you at Meung? You were never supposed to be there. You were supposed to be getting the king’s letters from Mendoza!”

Wait, who? Who the hell was Mendoza? Familiar name though. Where had I heard that name before? It is definitely not historical. Not in Dumas. Think fast! Mendoza, king’s letters… There was a BBC series some years ago. Oh lord, seriously? Wasn’t Mendoza some big guy in episode one, who…

“Died in his bath?” _Oh goodness did I blurt this out loud? I did!_

“He died in his bath, where Madame? And where are the letters?” Charlton Heston was not amused.

“Wow… we are at the very beginning aren’t we?” _Shit. I have to stop blurting out everything that pops in my brain._

“Beginning of what Madame? You have such an elliptical manner of discourse. I assume from what you say that Mendoza died in his bath at Meung on his way from Paris and that you found his body but not the letters so you had to return to Paris in this colorful disguise?”

_Did I say all that? No. But if it worked for him, who was I to disagree with Moses?_

“We need these letters. They should not reach Spain.”

This was definitely not Dumas: Spain instead of England. The Mendoza character instead of the Duke of Buckingham. I had not watched that television series carefully. I thought it was entertaining but it took too many liberties with Dumas and had absolutely no historical accuracy. Marvelous! Now I had to improvise using that series? On a less relevant note, was that not the series with all the sexy men in leather?

“One more thing Madame. My plan to discredit the Musketeers is in motion. I just need a name from you. A musketeer we can use. I believe you had mentioned Athos?”

“Hell no!” _There I go again! Blurting it all out!_

“What did you say, Madame?” he was irritated.

Ignoring his wrath, I put on my best deadpan face: “Your Eminence, I daresay this could be a misstep. I think the person you need is d’ Artagnan.” I was totally making it up as I went.

“I have never heard of a Musketeer by that name Madame.” He was furious but I was not about to budge even if this was indeed Moses.

“Oh but you will hear about him soon Your Eminence. It is just a matter of time. And when you meet him you will realize he is worth your attention. So perhaps your plan to discredit the Musketeers can be deferred?” I had no idea what the plan was. If this was the first episode of the series, as I suspected, I had watched it, like, four years before, while I was doing something else. Maybe folding laundry? Anyway. I needed to stall for time.

Charlton Heston was thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right Madame. Perhaps this is not the best time especially since the letters are not in our possession. We should wait.”

_Phew._

“Best you return home Madame. You cannot be seen in Paris like this. ( _No! Really?_ ) And before you go. Find me the owner of this weapon!” He handed me a pistol. I mean a real, 17th century pistol, like those you see in museums!

I walked out of the catacomb in what appeared to be a large well-kept lawn. Monastery? No. This looked more like a chateau or palace of some kind. It was maybe late afternoon.

Cell phone! I could check the time and place, surely? Damn! No signal and no Wi-Fi reception. Nothing. And the time showing on my screen was frozen at 12:45 pm. End of lunch hour. Librarian “Call Me Marcel” should be back by now to find what? No one? A woman in a period dress waiting for him?

The lawn was empty. I walked with the antique weapon in my hand. Was I supposed to find the owner of this? I could barely find my way out of this place! And where was I supposed to go? Milady Winter had a home somewhere. But where? I knew where her house was in Dumas: the fashionable district of St. Germain-en-Laye. Did the character have a house in that damn series? I would kill for just one moment of Wi-Fi! Alright, maybe not kill exactly…

“Perhaps it is a theater troupe for the king’s evening entertainment?” scoffed a woman’s voice behind me. I turned to meet a young woman, in her twenties, elegantly dressed (there was gold trimming on her petticoat I swear!), raven back hair, and pale skinned. She was followed by a tall, imposing, and handsome man, definitely of African descent. Leather clad with a fleur-de-lis pauldron around his right arm. I had seen enough of that BBC series to know this swoon-worthy specimen of leather clad manhood was Porthos! I had no idea who the lady was. Nothing registered.

“The Marquise d’ Isles asked you a question I believe” Porthos was definitely protective of her.

_Marquise d’ Isles? Condé! His… what? Daughter? Too young. Too pretty. Niece? Did he have a niece? Never read anything anywhere about a niece…_

Whoever she was, this Condé woman was a cousin to the king and she thought I looked entertaining. “Are you performing for the king?” she insisted.

_There was my solution! Thank you Mademoiselle!_

“No, Mademoiselle." I hoped I sounded polite. "We already did that ( _took a bit of a risk there._ ) We are performing for Milady de Winter and her friends this evening but I seem to have lost the rest of my troupe. New in Paris ( _silly smile_ ) I fear I don’t know where to go.”

She shrugged and turned her head arrogantly. Clearly, I was no longer interesting and too bold to have dared ask her a question ( _seriously girl?_ ). She pushed past me and moved on. Porthos smiled kindly though and lingered for a moment: “St. Germain-en-Laye, the large fancy house close to the Château. The one with the green shutters. You cannot miss it.” He showed me a side door opening to a corridor. “Follow this and you will be out of the Louvre.”

I love this man. Period. He looks like my first college boyfriend Luke. Major crush. He was a lecturer in Sociology. We broke up when he left to do fieldwork at a veteran center in Atlanta. I cried for ten days and consumed immense amounts of chocolate and alcohol followed by a frantic month at the gym trying to lose all the weight.

I found the house eventually. It was not easy. I had spent at least two years looking at 17th century maps of Paris. This Paris, however, was different somehow. They received me as if I were their real mistress! Fancy would be an understatement in describing this place! Think of Faye Dunaway’s house in that seventies Musketeer movie with Charlton Heston, and add more elaborate decorations to it, if you could. Her wardrobe was just like the house: over the top and dramatic! Then again, I was walking around with purple hair and a nose ring, so perhaps I should not judge? Certain wardrobe decisions had to be made immediately. In the end, I opted for a wig and got rid of the nose ring.

And the next day I met Athos.


	3. Isn't it Romantic?

 I did the only sensible thing anyone would do who was handed that kind of pistol and who still thought this was a reality show. I walked right through the gate of the Musketeer garrison and asked for Aramis. In all these years I have seen dozens of 17th century musketeer weapons, in drawings, paintings, and real ones, in museums and collections. This one was elaborately decorated but it was still the standard garrison wheel lock pistol. And although I probably folded laundry at the time, I remembered the television series clearly: Aramis escaping from his lover’s bedroom kicking his weapon under her bed. Hilarious scene. Most significantly: not in Dumas!

 

The Musketeer at the gate explained Aramis was out on duty, so it was Athos who showed up instead. I am a sucker for the moody type (enter Luke) but rarely do you meet the superlative of that. He seemed shocked to see me standing there.

 

“You are alive?” Yes. I swear. That is exactly what he said! Which should be listed among the most bizarre things a man has ever uttered to a woman in the history of bizarre things men usually say to women.

 

“Obviously?”

I still don’t know how to do that mocking thing Milady did with her eyes when I met her, without looking like a fool. But this is where I would have done it, if I were Milady. But I am not. In fact I could barely walk in her dress and her shoes with the odd heels. The wig was driving me crazy and her bodice was pressing into my ribs in the most uncomfortable manner. Also I wanted to sneeze. There was hay everywhere in this 17th century Paris and all over this garrison. I am allergic to hay. “Can we talk somewhere inside, Monsieur?” I sniffled.

 

I had never understood the expression “like you have seen a ghost” but the poor man looked as if he had seen one. He led me into an upstairs room that looked like an office. “The Captain is returning soon but we can speak here,” he could barely put two words together. If this was some prank, he was doing a perfect Athos act. But this was now just too elaborate to be a prank. All I wanted was to get back to my map in the archive. I had already lost a day of work ( _yes I was still that naïve_.) So perhaps just tell him as much as I could, and find my way back?

 

“I thought you were dead,” he stammered.

 

“Nope. Not dead. We established that. Priest not my brother either. Can we move on? I have this pistol…” I hurried on.

 

“What priest?”

_Damn you Dumas!_

“Forget the part about the priest. Focus on the pistol,” I pressed on.

 

Unfortunately, some tendencies are stronger than others. “What are you doing in Paris? He insisted. “I hear talk of a woman who does the Cardinal’s bidding. Is that you? Are you his assassin?”

He was, maybe, two steps away from me.

_Smolder Alert!_

 

Assassin? Of course she was an assassin! But hey, we kinda think of her as a badass feminist ancestor in the family…

_Too soon to tell him this? …Maybe?_

 

I opted for something cliché and more faithful to her character.

“Well I work for France just like you, Monsieur” I replied, imitating Milady’s sassiness from the day before.

 

And then I sneezed.

 

This was my first encounter with Athos ladies and gentlemen!

I sneezed.

In his face.


	4. Meet me in St. Louis

Clearly sweet “badass grandma” had shoved me into the script of the first episode of the BBC Musketeers series. Not the show; the script. These were _not_ the actors. Don’t be disappointed. If Porthos and Athos were any indication, the written characters were as swoon-worthy as the actors they had picked for that show. Leather-clad too.

I should have known things were already not moving in the right direction. Had I paid more attention to that damn first episode all these years ago I might have remembered what the Cardinal’s plan to discredit the Musketeers was. I might have known that not setting it in motion meant that a certain young Gascon traveling to Paris with his father to petition the Cardinal, would now never meet a mercer’s wife who was to become his wife later, or encounter three Musketeers of the King’s guard who were to become his best friends. It was only as I faced Athos in that room over the garrison, antique pistol still in my hand, that it dawned on me.

_Where the hell was d’ Artagnan?_

 It suddenly all came back. The first thing about that television series that annoyed the heck out of me was how much they had changed Dumas. Their d’Artagnan never arrived in Paris to become a Musketeer and was not the son of one. They made him the son of some farmer! But he eventually challenged all three Musketeers to a duel as in Dumas. Why? Damn you! Remember! Because… Yes! Because he thought Athos had killed his father! Which he had not! It was the Cardinal’s men pretending to be Musketeers who had done the deed! The Cardinal’s plot! Oh no, no, no….

  _Red Alert!_

“Where is d’ Artagnan?” I exclaimed.

 “Who?” Athos was bemused. “Did this d’ Artagnan give you the pistol?”

“No, Monsieur! You and I know this weapon belongs to your comrade Aramis. And how careless that gentleman is with his personal possessions! Left this pistol at the boudoir of a certain lady. Rumor has it that lady enjoys the protection of a very powerful gentleman. It is said also, that your dear friend was in such a hurry on his way out that he mistook her window for the door.”

_This would have been so much more convincing at the time, if I had actually remembered her name!_

Athos looked at me in sheer disbelief. For a man so reticent he had the most eloquent eyes. He gave me an arrogant, fiery, look, which I decided from then on to call The Stare. “How on earth do you know all this, Madame?”

“Well…I am knowledgeable that way. That lady’s very powerful protector does not know anything for the moment. But he suspects. And I would be happy to convince him otherwise. It is not up to me, you understand…”

“I see. This is blackmail. You have a price. I should have known…” he sounded disappointed.

_Did I say that? No. But who am I to argue with The Stare? Besides…this might help me kill two birds with one shot. Metaphorically speaking._

“I simply would be extremely grateful if you found a certain Monsieur d’ Artagnan who recently arrived in Paris from Gascony with his father to petition the Cardinal. All you have to do is invite him to meet with you at the Carmes Deschaux or any other location that may be convenient to you,” I declared as arrogantly as I could.

 “Lover of yours? What did he do? Discovered your dark secrets?” Athos had such a way with words.

  _Who wrote the dialogues for this show?_

 “Such a preposterous thing to say to a lady Monsieur, and at a moment when you should strive for my gratitude. I suggest you make an effort. I really do. And warn your dear friend Aramis—he is your dear friend, is he not?—to seek diversion elsewhere?”

How did that Marquise d’ Isles do it yesterday at the Louvre? Scoff. Shrug. Turn your back. Keep it over the top and dramatic! I was perfect with the scoffing and the shrugging. The turning and making a dramatic exit needed more practice. Have you ever tried a dramatic exit in one of these damn dresses? Think of trying to parallel-park a rental that is twice the size of your car. It takes some time to learn how to maneuver the thing, if you ever do. So there I was in the midst of my dramatic exit, with the back of my skirt caught at the door.

“Oh shit!”  _Did I blurt this out? Again? Crap._

Athos knelt and patiently untangled the dress. The Stare had disappeared although he stared up at me with interest now, a faint smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you!” I declared, grabbing the long train of my skirt from his hand, and walking proudly down the stairs and out of the garrison, hoping I would not stumble on Milady’s heeled shoes.

 The next morning I received a note from Athos: a neat, steady, cursive hand. I used to study such things once. Two days ago…

 

It was a brief note:

“Found your friend. Meet me at the Notre-Dame-en-l'Île at noon. A. ”

 

Notre-Dame-en-l'Île is the church known today as Saint-Louis-en-l'Île.


	5. Anything Goes

The church of Notre-Dame-en-l'Île stood at the intersection of the rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Île and the rue Poulletier. It was built in 1623. It was dedicated to Louis IX who was canonized as St. Louis of France. The name of the church changed to Saint-Louis-en-l'Île in 1634. Athos had used the earliest name in his note, which meant that I had found myself in Paris sometime after 1623 and before 1634. Not that it mattered much.

Besides taking wild liberties with Dumas, the writers of the television series had completely ignored almost all historical facts in their scripts, which I had found annoying. Dumas was not historically accurate either, but even that great manipulator of history could not escape or change basic and well known facts. I now found myself in some kind of alternative literary universe where historical facts were entirely irrelevant. Where nothing I knew or stood for made sense. There was something deeply comforting in sticking to basics, like dates. They were grounding somehow, rendering this experience more relevant to me, and making me feel more relevant in it. Without that tentative link to reality I was an oddity interacting with one-dimensional characters that spouted dramatic banalities written for family hour television. An impostor in borrowed clothes that I could not even wear correctly, who knew little about the conventions in the scripted universe of this particular television show.

The church did not look like the one you’d see in Paris today. That at least was correct. The one in Paris today was rebuilt in 1642 by François Le Vau, whose younger brother Louis, was one of the architects who built the Palace of Versailles. There was a cemetery on one side of the old church and a busy market on the other, just as sources describe ( _they got this right too!_ ). Its interior was spacious and well lit, the bright sun of midday shining through the stained glass windows. It was quiet, only a few people sitting on pews, mostly women.

I walked down the main aisle. I assumed I had to make myself conspicuous somehow. A hand grabbed me and I was pushed behind one of the columns that framed a family chapel. “Are you mad?” Athos’ voice was vexed. “What are you doing walking down the main aisle looking around like this? Are you trying to get us seen? Is this a trap?”

_Paranoid much?_

“Look Monsieur, you invited me here. I assumed I needed to make myself conspicuous. I refuse to apologize. And don’t you _ever_ push me around like this!” I shoved his hand away from my arm.

He looked surprised, shocked almost, to be shamed thus.

“I am not sure what kind of gallantry you are accustomed to Monsieur and I don’t care. Or how much of your version of gallantry involves shoving women around because in your mind you are entitled to it or they deserve it. Don’t you _ever_ do this to me!”

He stepped back “I sincerely apologize Madame.” His voice had changed. It sounded more subdued. His swagger, and the arrogant look in his eyes that I called The Stare were replaced by something else. Looking back, part of me still wishes it were respect.

“I found your man, Madame. The Gascon, d’ Artagnan. It was not difficult. He is a new recruit in the Cardinal’s Red Guard. He joined them yesterday. Traveled with his father to petition the Cardinal a few days ago. The father was killed at an inn just outside Paris. Thieves. The Cardinal sought him out it seems.”

_Yesterday? The Cardinal sought him out? Already! Of course! I told him to do so!_

The entire story was unraveling and barely two days had gone by. D’ Artagnan a guard for the Cardinal? Not until Mazarin comes around. In literature and history alike! Something had to be done. Time to start rewriting this mess of a script. After all, it was not exactly a masterpiece.

“They were not thieves, they were Red Guards in disguise and paid thugs. The idea was to blame Musketeers for a series of unrelated violent acts. I believe the intention was to use your name as the leader of a gang of renegade Musketeers.” I was pretty sure by now that was the plot of the first episode. I had two days to think about it.

“Renegade Musketeers? There is no such thing… What a strange notion. And why me?” he sat down on a marble bench in the chapel quite perplexed.

“None of this made any sense to me either. Which is why I was not paying much attention to it.” I agreed.

“You knew about this?” he looked sad.

I sat next to him. Not so easy with that skirt. “I was engaged in another activity while this plot was…developing. I found the entire storyline underwhelming at the time. It has taken me these past two days to piece it together.”

“What other activity? Poisoning someone?” he retorted.

_Could you please be less of a cliché?_

“I will pretend I did not hear this,” I shot him an angry look. “Pray focus on the issue at hand, Monsieur. You are no longer relevant apparently and the renegade Musketeers plot is aborted. On the other hand, Monsieur d’ Artagnan has become very relevant.”

“And that is why you want me to challenge him to a duel?” he added.

“Did I say that? No, Monsieur! You keep inventing intentions I do not have. Duels are illegal after all.”

_Nice touch, Dumas would be proud!_

“I asked you simply to invite the gentleman at a location of your choosing. In fact, it would be much better if you exchanged nothing but words between you. I suspect you will find him a brave and loyal young man. Who knows? Even a potential Musketeer apprentice and friend?”

_No Monsieur Treville’s office, no Monsieur Des Essarts, nothing from Dumas nor history for that matter. But anything would do now to get this script back on track._

Athos sneered. “You never stop do you? Plotting. I have no doubt there is a trap in there somewhere.”

_Can’t this man think beyond his personal drama? Maybe his character has a limited range of reactions. How one-dimensional can you write a television character, I wonder…_

I shrugged. “It seems to me you have no choice on the matter, Monsieur. There is that small detail of a misplaced pistol, if you recall. By the way, why invite me here of all places? Not that I complain. It is fascinating to get to see the old church. Might as well get something constructive out of all this.”

“I was told you come here often. That this is where you meet your confessor, Madame. I was surprised to find out you have one,” he smirked.

Me too. Not so sure how to handle this. I am not Catholic, never had a confessor, and the nuances of the extremely complicated 17th century history of religion were not exactly at the tip of my tongue. I study socioeconomic history: deeds, contracts, laws, agricultural yields, poverty, and the like.

“Yes, indeed, I meet my confessor here,” I hurried to add hoping the discussion would shift to something other than religion.

He was clearly unconvinced and I was not exactly persuasive. He looked bemused: “The _old_ church? This church was built just seven years ago!”

_So this is 1630! Not that it makes any difference, but hey! I have a date!_

“You confuse me Madame, you truly do,” he continued. “You sound extremely well informed about all kinds of minutiae and intimate details, while at the same time you are completely ignorant of the most obvious things and almost all fundamental conventions of ladylike conduct: how to contain certain natural human tendencies, how to exit a room with your skirts intact, or sit gracefully for that matter.” He gave me a meaningful look. I admit. Sitting on this skirt was the definition of uncomfortable. “And if my memory serves, despite all that has happened between us, you were the most graceful woman I have ever met. Until I met you again yesterday.”

Astute though his observations were, this was definitely the opposite of a compliment.

“Permit me to tell you what I really think, Madame,” he added with a wry smile. “I think you are an impostor. And I intend to prove it.”


	6. Friends and Enemies

_... And I thought this was going so well…_

He stood up from the marble bench. Someone else approached. Another leather clad musketeer whose swagger was an image to behold. He was tall, lithe, graceful, and handsome like no mortal has a right to be: pale skin, black eyes, long, curly, raven black, hair, and a perfectly trimmed moustache. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on his stark white collar. He wore a light brown leather coat in a hongreline cut although much longer than the regular historical shape, perfectly fitted, and elegantly made. Just like Porthos and Athos, he had a pauldron with a fleur-de-lis on his right arm, the television version of a uniform that, historically, looked _nothing_ like this. His coat was accentuated with a dark blue silk scarf, tied around his waist. He was holding a gray cavalier beaver hat cocked on the front with a silver pin and decorated with a long pale blue ostrich plume. The hat alone had probably cost him a fortune. I had no doubt who he was, although he looked only vaguely like the actor who portrayed him in the series.

“Aramis,”Athos confirmed my guess, “this is Milady de Winter. I believe she is in possession of something that belongs to you. Something she promises to return under certain conditions.”

“Madame” he bowed politely although his dark eyes were full of contempt, “always delighted to meet a fair antagonist. I understand your terms include exposing of a freshly recruited Red Guard?”

“Not exactly apparently”, Athos chimed in scornfully, “I am supposed to challenge him to a duel but, correct me if I am wrong Madame, for I would not dream of misinterpreting your noble intentions again, I am not supposed to fight with him. Instead…talk to him and befriend him?”

I was being mocked. It was unsettling and vexing; for a brief moment I thought we had an understanding. If this was not the 17th century, even in this skewed alterative version, and I was not pretending to be some television character, I would have told these two swaggering leather clad heartthrobs exactly what I thought of them and their attitude. But I reminded myself that all I wanted was to find a way back and make sure I don’t mess up this script more than necessary, until then.

“You may be pleasantly surprised, Monsieur Aramis.” I retorted with enough sarcasm, I hoped. “Perhaps the young man will be worthy of your attention in the end. His Eminence took a special interest in him so he must be of some merit. I may be wrong, Monsieur, but I was under the distinctive impression that you revel in appropriating what His Eminence cherishes most.”

This audience was over. I stood up, curtsied slightly, and moved out of the chapel. I half expected to see Porthos somewhere. And indeed there he was, walking towards us from the opposite side of the aisle. I passed by him slowly acknowledging him with a slight bow. He stopped and smiled a wide candid smile. “You changed your hair,” he said kindheartedly. I was taken aback by his unreserved manner following the previous unpleasant encounter. I stopped momentarily. “Thank you Monsieur. I am indebted to you for your help the other day.” He touched the brim of his large felt hat and bowed.

As I moved towards the exit I heard his sonorous deep voice echoing in the empty church. “ _She_ is Milady de Winter?”


	7. Cardinal Error

Formal invitations from the Cardinal were a pompous affair. A special envoy at the door, a sealed letter, “Milady de Winter is summoned at the Palais Cardinal at such day and hour.” No…RSVPs. When you are “summoned” you have no choice.

On the designated day, I put on my best poker face, and a striped dark blue dress with complicated long sleeves but a less complicated full skirt. Milady’s dresses were not even remotely authentic to the 17th century. Now that I had plenty of time to try them all on and look at them carefully they reminded me of outfits you see at places like the Steampunk World Fair. My first impression of her over the top wardrobe was completely unfair. I loved every single one of her dresses but the striped dark blue dress that I picked for the audience with the Cardinal was simply stunning and fitted perfectly. I wish I could wear it with my actual purple streaked hair and my nose ring. I would rule the Steampunk World Fair. She owned a great number of chokers and, if what I saw when I met her was any indication, she loved wearing them. I chose one with a large sacred heart that looked like something you’d buy on etsy under “punk jewelry.” There was nothing French about her outfits either. I remember reading somewhere that the show was opting for “a historical fusion aesthetic.” This is the kind of vacuous platitude people use when they are making it all up as they go. I could not see any “historical fusion” with these outfits unless this was a fusion of the Victoria and Albert costume collections with Dr. Who. I wish someone had written a Tardis into this script, even as a footnote, so I could use it to return home.

Needless to say, there should not have been a Palais Cardinal if this was indeed 1630. The construction of that palace started in 1633 and it was finished in 1639. And yet, there it was, very much the building I know from drawings of the period.

The Cardinal was sitting at a desk in a large sparsely decorated room that felt cold and unwelcoming. Dark wooden bookcases covered almost every available wall space. He looked busy, reading something and beating his fingers against the top of the table. Finally, a Dumas scene I recognized! He was writing music for his tragedy “Mirame.” Of course, historically speaking, this should not have happened for another ten years at least. Dumas played with historical facts, although nothing as anachronistic as the dress I was wearing.

The Cardinal kept reading, completely ignoring my presence even as I stood in front of his desk. In this well lit room he looked even more like Charlton Heston than the first time I met him in that dark catacomb at the Louvre. I was not expected to speak. It was his show of power: you stand silently until he condescends to address you. Not unlike my dissertation advisor at Harvard, a world famous historian, who would let you wait forever outside his office, making sure you learned, early on, how disciplinary hierarchies work. I’d say academic life had trained me well for these kinds of power games. I probably had encountered worse, I suddenly realized. For the first time since I landed in this script, it occurred to me: I was more qualified to play in this script from the top. Ironic, is it not, that I aspire to write about poor people living in a 17th century slum?

The Cardinal looked up. “Ah, Milady de Winter! Looking as elegant as your usual self, finally!”

I smiled “Thank you, Your Eminence. Rumor has it that Monsieur Desmarets desperately seeks inspiration for a tragedy he is unable to complete.”

The tragedy Mirame was staged at a magnificent and costly performance with the King and Queen in attendance in 1641, under the name of the dramatist and founding member of the French Academy, Jean Desmarets. It was—it is—an extremely mediocre piece of literary work, remembered more for the elaborate performance than for any literary merits. My father, who teaches French Literature at Brown, jokes that poor Desmarets had to put up with having his name associated with a literary atrocity.

The Cardinal sat back at his chair and crossed his hands on his chest. He looked at me with extreme interest “What an excellent notion, Madame! I am truly impressed. This is your second excellent idea in just a few days to make up for failing to catch up with Mendoza. I congratulate you also on your suggestion to enlist that young Gascon.”

“He has proven himself useful then?” I probed.

“He is eager enough after his father’s untimely death in the hands of a gang of renegade Musketeers.” He smiled a wily smile, “Raw talent and a bit impetuous. I suppose it is youth and his Gascon heritage. He seems intelligent. I am putting him to the test as we speak.”

“You are?” I was not sure I wanted to hear this.

“Yes, Madame. The Comte de Rochefort has been a prisoner in Spain for the past four years, as you know. Our spies inform me he was moved to the Castell de la Trinitat at Girona in the last few days. Perhaps this means that Mendoza’s letters have reached Madrid. Why else would they engage in such blatant provocation? Spymaster Vargas knows that I know that Rochefort is a lost cause. After four years he can tell them nothing they don’t already know. He is probably turned by now. Vargas is exceptionally accomplished. He used to work for the Inquisition. Besides I have heard Rochefort has lost his mind.”

_Wait! Rochefort was the villain in Season Two, wasn’t he? Are we not supposed to be in, like, episode ONE?_

I decided not to panic. Yet. “So this is obviously a trap…” I added carefully.

_No shit Sherlock…_

“Of course. And what a fortuitous trap it is! Our Gascon gets his first mission. If he fails we lose nothing. We get rid of an inadequate new guard and a spy who is no longer of any use to us. If he succeeds, ah then, we have a valuable soldier on our side!”

“Excellent plan your Eminence. Only permit me to point out that in the latter case, we also end up with Rochefort, who may be a Spanish spy and even dangerous.” I was still not entirely following this.

“True Madame. But, is this not an opportunity to use their spy against them? Feed the Spanish the information we want? Besides, Her Majesty the Queen is a childhood friend of the Comte. She has been concerned about him. She even wrote to her brother on the subject. The Queen’s gratitude would be invaluable. She would make a formidable ally. As for the Comte’s potential dangerous character, this is where you come in my dear.”

“I do?”

_Swell._

“Yes, Madame. Keeping our friend the Comte under control and feeding him the information we want him to convey to Spain will be left in your very capable hands. As will our young Gascon, should he survive, of course. I hope you will find your second assignment more enjoyable than the first. Keep our young friend diverted, and…loyal?”

I bowed with a smile. I had one card to play and this appeared to be the best time to play it. “I am indeed grateful to Your Eminence. One cannot hope for a better teacher than you in these matters. If Your Eminence permits me to suggest an alternative diversion for our young Gascon? One that may also work in our favor?”

The Cardinal looked intrigued. A slight nod indicated he wanted me to continue.

“A certain Madame Bonacieux. She is the wife of a mercer at the Rue de Fossoyeurs…” ( _Please gods of literature make this Dumas detail work!)_

“I see,” the Cardinal interrupted, “so our young friend has already discovered a diversion for himself in that direction?”

“It appears so, Your Eminence,” I lied “and it seems to me that we would not only ensure his loyalty but afford ourselves an additional reliable informant if the lady in question should find herself in Her Majesty’s service.”

I was walking on thin ice. I had no idea whether d’ Artagnan had ever even met Constance Bonacieux. Most likely he had not. I was however hoping that if I managed to bring these two close somehow…nature (or the script) would kick in and take its course in the right direction.

It was a mistake.


	8. Paper Moon

I walked out of the Palais Cardinal feeling I had brought about some progress finally. Besides, I had neither sneezed in the Cardinal’s face nor slipped on his polished office floor. And I had to admit I felt far more comfortable talking to him than anyone else I had encountered so far.

Especially Athos. I had expected Athos to be the kind of dark, arrogant stereotype male lead who first thinks you are annoying but then realizes he really likes you and that you really like him. I was wrong. He was written as a one-dimensional, arrogant, and unpleasant man, who could not see beyond some past trauma, which, if I recall, may not have even actually happened! And he drank a lot. You could smell it in his breath. A total disappointment. I believed myself now entirely cured of that old high school and rather perverted crush. Perhaps if I had walked into the Dumas novel instead of this stupid television script, things would have been different?

Instinctively, I put my hand in the pocket of my dress. Oh yes…that blue dress had a pocket for a dagger! I just kept my cell phone in it. I turned it on. The screen was still frozen: seven days ago, at 12:45pm. My time slot at the National Archive was lost by now. I remembered the librarian, “Call me Marcel.” The mousy guy with the attitude. I thought I had problems back then. And then I noticed: the phone battery had not budged! Not one single bar! My phone battery used to die if texted for too long… This was strange. What if, I asked myself, somehow technology works differently here?

I was standing alone at the lawn of this anachronistic Palais Cardinal. Why not? I turned on the video and quickly shot a few screens with a comment: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in 1630 and somehow this is the Palais Cardinal! Built seven years ahead of schedule! Welcome to my dystopia!”

I walked onto the busy street. Snapped a few more photos carefully! All of a sudden this alternative 17th century Paris became a game of hide and seek. Or, rather, seek and hide: Seek the monument and hide the phone camera while you snap photos. And then it occurred to me: find the Court of Miracles!

It was not difficult to find it. There was a wall around it. A wall! People walled in like cattle… The stench was unbearable. I walked in. The entire place looked devoid of all life. A sinister silence. And then it started. Someone, somewhere, started banging a metal object. A pot? And then another, and another. Soon the sound was deafening. From dark corners, out of invisible doors, shadows started moving towards me. Were these people? I should never have come here. I tried to walk backwards but people were emerging like ghosts from every corner and alcove of the street. Until now, I had never felt really frightened. Until now it all was more like a game or a simulation. Not real.

A hand grabbed my arm. A strong and steady, hand. I was sure it was all over.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Porthos!

“Walk slowly” he whispered as he placed himself behind me and started to push back the crowd. He was holding his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. “Stay back or I will shoot!” he shouted.

We managed to get out unscathed. “Are you out of your mind, Madame?” he was angry and looked tired. “This is a dangerous place. Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if I had not shown up?”

“I was simply curious, Monsieur. It was a mistake on my part. Thank you for your timely intervention.” I admit I was still somewhat rattled.

“You are Milady de Winter! I expect you are carrying some weapon with you!” he exclaimed.

“No I am not…” I blurted out.

He was taken aback. “Well then, that was just foolish. Unless you are suicidal.”

“Do you know this place Monsieur?” I remembered enough from the series to know that he did.

“I grew up here Madame with the thieves and the beggars,” he responded candidly. The Dumas version of Porthos, would _never_ have admitted this! The Dumas version of Porthos was not half as wonderful as this man. “My mother died here. I survived.” I reached for his hand and held it for a moment. I am not sure if this was ladylike or appropriate, and I did not care.

He smiled tenderly, “I will walk you home.”

“I suspect you find it odd Monsieur. I suspect you find _me_ rather odd. After all, as you said, I am Milady. I should need little protection.”

“Yes, I do Madame. I find all of this rather odd,” he admitted. “But nothing so far has been more odd than you with purple hair, that ring through your nose, and that outlandish outfit the first day we met. Anyone who dares to walk like this in the Louvre is someone I want to know!”

I laughed, “It is a long story, Monsieur!”

He grinned back, “ Oh I have no doubt!”

 

Night had fallen. A pale moon shone over the city. Some kind of fair was taking place in this part of town. A large crowd of people, fire breathers, a snake charmer, someone on a stage inviting people to see a mermaid from the seas of the New World, a fortune teller, musicians, jugglers, people on stilts, a knife thrower….

Porthos grabbed my hand. I knew immediately why. Even in this crowd I had a feeling we were being followed. Clearly he did too.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered.

“Implicitly.”

 

We started walking faster. We cleared the crowd and entered a maze of narrow backstreets. Porthos knew exactly where he was going. I was completely lost. He stopped at a dark corner and signaled me to keep quiet. We could hear the footsteps of the person following us. Porthos reached his enormous arm and grabbed him. A man. Short stature.

“No, no, no, I have no money! Don’t hurt me,” the man whimpered.

The voice sounded familiar.

 

“Stop whining and explain why you are following us!” Porthos growled.

“My dear Monsieur, this is some kind of terrible mistake! I am just a poor horse trainer, from the fair…” He was clearly lying.

“Your name, Monsieur poor horse trainer!” Porthos demanded.

“Saracen” the man replied artfully. I had heard that name before, and could swear it was part of the television series but I was too shaken to remember anything further. Shaken, because his voice was so incredibly familiar. It was only then that Porthos pulled the man from the dark street corner into the light of the moon. I knew exactly who the man was.

The librarian: “Call me Marcel.”

From the other end of the alley a group of men appeared carrying sticks. Saracen freed himself from Porthos’ grip. He was no longer whimpering or pleading. “You are all alone here, it seems to me Musketeer and I know she is useless”. His voice was threatening.

Porthos drew his sword. “We will see.”

 “I don’t think it is a good idea, Porthos.” I pulled at his sleeve. “Perhaps this is the wrong time for heroics and with the wrong people. I don’t want to be killed in some dark alley by a bunch of thugs. It is not worth it. Let’s leave now. We still have time.”

Porthos weighed our options for a second, grabbed my hand and simply said: “Run!”

 

As we hurried away I heard that familiar voice shouting: “Enjoyed your field trip at the Court of Miracles…doctor?”

 

That night, back in Milady’s bedroom, seated on her plush bed, still shaken by the events earlier in the evening, I considered my situation. I had to go back, find dear sweet grand-mama, and make sure she got back into this script where she belonged. But that had just become more complicated. She clearly had accomplices on the “other side” and our meeting in the archive was not at all by chance. It was planned.

I looked at my phone: The battery still, mysteriously, intact. I decided I had to start recording all this. I am a scholar. I record things and I study records. Besides, that would be the best way to keep track of the mess, on “this side.” I pushed the record button on the screen.

_Recording_

“Captain’s Log, Date… Some fictional version of 1630?”

_Be serious. Go._


	9. That's Why The Lady is A Tramp!

Day 21 in alt-1630.

_Phone battery still mysteriously not faltering._

Had been spending most of my time walking around in this version of Paris in my maid’s clothes. I suspected “Saracen” was watching the house and I was not interested in any encounters with Musketeers, Cardinal spies, or anyone else who might have known my “badass grandmother” from before. I needed, however, to understand the layout of this world since I was clearly stuck into it. This version of Paris was not altogether correct. It was missing major parts and had other parts that did not exist in the 17th century. I suspected there were parts the writers did not need so they did not include them in the script. Distances were definitely wrong. I should have never been able to walk from the Louvre to Milady’s house. Of course, no lady would ever walk any distance at all and apparently I owned a carriage, which I started using now every time I had to become “her.”

I wondered if all of France was “condensed” the same way as Paris. I got word from the Cardinal that “our talented Gascon friend” had returned and was successful. Apparently you could make it all the way from Paris to Catalonia on horseback, save a prisoner, and be back in less than five days!

It was a day later that a servant in livery arrived, carrying an envelope with the Cardinal’s seal. Only this time it was a different sort of invitation.

“Milady de Winter is a guest of His Eminence The Cardinal at Court for an audience with Their Majesties.”

Not exactly the historically correct language but the meaning was clear. The audience was to take place two days later. I had time to practice deep curtsying.

 

I used the carriage of course. Wore another one of Milady’s spectacularly anachronistic dresses with lots of pearls. This one had a pocket too, this time made for a pistol. I hid the phone it. You never know when you might be able to snap a photo at the court of Louis XIII!

I admit I was a bit nervous. At the back of my mind I was hoping that once in the Louvre I could find my way to that catacomb and then, perhaps, back to my Paris. I was sure I had set things in motion in such a way that the script could simply correct itself. My job here was done.

The Louvre was palace-like in a generic Disney sort of way. There were one or two parts that felt vaguely familiar. But whoever wrote the description was using wide brushstrokes. As always, I played along. I simply followed the servant who led the way, mentally marking the routes through this part of the palace.

We entered a spacious, bright room, with large windows on one side overlooking a lawn. The same lawn I had walked through the first day.

_Bingo!_

 

Somewhere at the top of the room, on a raised platform, two, currently empty, golden thrones were set for the King and Queen. A large crowd of people was in attendance. None of the faces was familiar to me. The Condé lady who scoffed at me on my first day here was not present. Pity. I would have loved to know who she was supposed to be. Momentarily I got a glimpse of someone familiar. He was standing at the very front of the room: A handsome, elegant, older, man in that leather Musketeer uniform. I bet that was Treville! He looked almost exactly like Hugo Speer!

“His Eminence, The Cardinal Richelieu” a voice echoed in the room as the main, double doors opened. The crowd shifted to make way for the Cardinal. The men bowed and the women curtsied. He walked slowly acknowledging some of the people with an elaborate nod of the head. He did not acknowledge me, although I saw the corner of his eyes noticing me as he passed. He greeted Treville who bowed and kissed his ringed finger, and then he walked onto the platform and stood next to the tallest of the two chairs; the King’s throne.

“Their Royal Majesties, Queen Anne and King Louis of France!” the same voice announced, as a side door opened now. The King was a short, stout man, round faced, pale, with long black curly hair. Still not as perfectly coiffed as Aramis’, I thought! The Queen was much prettier than any of her historical paintings. She looked extremely young: auburn haired with an oval face, large pale blue eyes, and a small well-shaped mouth. She was smiling.

The royal couple was followed by the lords and ladies of their respective courts. She was indeed among them! Madame Constance Bonacieux! Just as the Cardinal had promised. She looked the same as in the series. Pretty, young, and rosy cheeked. She was standing behind the…King?

Their Majesties nodded to the Cardinal who bowed to both and then they stood for a moment facing the gathered crowd. Everyone bowed and curtsied again, including me. Quite the political theater, I thought, although of course in reality, this should have been even more elaborate.

“We are pleased to announce that Our Beloved Cardinal, He who tirelessly guards Us even when We sleep, has returned one of Our brave and beloved friends to Us, saving him from a cruel ordeal in the hands of the Spanish. Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort, a brave servant and knight is returned today to the arms of France!” The King was clearly very proud and the Queen elated.

The main double doors opened again. This time a man walked in. He was tall, pale and fair, probably in his early to mid forties. You would definitely call him attractive. I thought so at least, and blonde men have never really been my cup of tea. He looked a bit like Sting. Five men walked behind him. Three Red Guards and two Musketeers. Some familiar faces there: Porthos and Aramis.

The Cardinal took over from the King. “Your Majesties. We welcome Our beloved friend and servant of France, Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort, back to her bosom. It was the bravery and ingenuity of the Red Guards that led to this accomplishment. May I present to Your Royal Majesties the intrepid leader of this group of heroes, Monsieur d’ Artagnan! ”

One of the Red Guards stepped out of the line. I could not see his face, just his back. He bowed deeply. “We are forever in your debt Monsieur, as we are forever in the debt of Our Beloved Cardinal for returning our dear friend to Us” the Queen exclaimed and everyone applauded.

 

“That is your man!” whispered a voice behind me.

Athos.

Not exactly looking forward to this encounter. “Well?” I retorted, turning towards him.

“Well. Nothing yet. The boy accepted the challenge. He thinks renegade Musketeers killed his father. Not me, but definitely Musketeers. Rumor has it he is intelligent and a talented swordsman.”

“Yes, but remember, the entire point is not to fight really.” I insisted. “The point is you realize you actually like him and would rather be friends.” _Well that did not come out as I would have wished to._

Athos was perplexed. “Whose point? I am having a very hard time understanding this plot of yours or even figuring out where the potential trap is.”

“What if there is no plot, and no trap? Would that confuse your single-mindedness, Monsieur?” I was giving away too much but in retrospect I thought I would be jumping through the portal and back home in a few minutes.

“Porthos insists you are not what you seem. He told us some interesting stories about you. Is it Doctor now instead of Milady?” He was mocking me again.

I shrugged “Well Monsieur, since you think I am an impostor, who am I to argue with you? Congratulations. You have proved it!”

 

Meanwhile, the King and Queen were walking around in the room, greeting a selected few. At the corner of my eye I noticed that the King kept Madame Bonacieux next to him.

Athos clearly observed it too. He smiled. “Madame Bonacieux. Her husband is a mercer. Imagine that! A mercer’s wife among the Queen’s ladies! Your friend the Cardinal has a singular sense of humor. Apparently she is now the King’s mistress, according to Aramis. A mercer’s wife of all people! Such an affront to the Queen!”

“Oh no, no, no… That is all wrong!”

_Did I say that out loud? Too late…_

 

“For once I agree with you. But wrong as opposed to what? You do sound odd Madame. And “odd” was exactly how Porthos described you!”

“Are you by nature so utterly ghastly with people, Monsieur, or just when you talk to me?” I had enough of his quips.

He bowed. “Madame, I …”

“Please, spare me the vacuous apology. You accused me of being un-ladylike some days ago as opposed to the graceful wife you once had. Let me say Monsieur then, that there is nothing in your manner and attitude that I consider noble, honorable, or even decent. I find your cruelty distasteful, Monsieur. You have much to learn from your friend Porthos in terms of compassion and kindness. And since we are on the subject of observations about our respective persons, I suggest you drink less, or change your shirts more often, or both.”

_Voila, I am done with you! Such a disastrous disappointment in the fan-girl department you have been! I just hope you do not challenge me to a duel after this declaration, because then I would have to pick d’ Artagnan as my knight errand….Wait… that could be a brilliant plan B!_

I made an excellent dramatic turn and left him standing there.

Stunned.

_Goddess!_


	10. Crash Landing

Now. How do we make our way to that lawn and to the catacomb?

True. The script for this first episode was still not exactly fixed. There was the slight glitch of Madame Bonacieux now the King’s unlikely mistress and the fact that Rochefort was back one season earlier. Aramis was not supposed to meet the Queen yet so that was none of my business. I had done my best as far as Episode One was concerned. Everyone who should be meeting was actually now meeting or at each other’s face. The rest was up to them. And from what I had seen, none of these characters was complicated enough to make some crazy out-of-script decision. Were they?

It took some effort to get to that lawn, including jumping over a marble fence that separated a series of large flower parterres from the central part of the garden. Not an easy maneuver in this outfit. I hoped no one was looking. I was thinking how strange it would be to find myself back in the National Archive wearing this Steampunk dress!

And then I remembered the librarian… “Call me Marcel.” Saracen. Quite a few loose ends on the other side too.

 

I suddenly noticed someone else. Rochefort. He was sitting alone under a colonnade. I have no idea what prompted me to talk to him. It is not as if I had not watched Season Two, although granted, also not carefully. But then he looked lonely and there was a part of me that hated how this character, a victim of torture, suffering from god-knows-what, and abandoned for years, was written. I have a soft spot for television villains. I love Moriarty in Sherlock.

“Hello” I said tentatively.

He looked up, absent-mindedly. “Oh hello. Do you like crowds? I hate them. Blah blah blah… our beloved this, our brave that…! I loved the part about the bosom of France though!” He moved a bit aside. “Want to sit? Go ahead. Nice vaulting over that fence. I was betting you would fall on your face in that skirt. Very un-ladylike of you. You sure don’t belong in this place. But who does? Mercers’ wives it seems. It’s all going seriously downhill. What’s your name?”

_Wow…Maybe he had little opportunity to talk to people for the past four years?_

“I am Milady de Winter.” 

“Ah…recent arrival, eh? Still trying to blend in? Have never met one of you that looks so much like one of us! Wow! Like twin sisters. I guess there is always a first,” he chuckled.

“I am sorry Monsieur… I do not follow…” I stammered.

“How do you people say it? Please cut the Monsieur thing? And call me Phil.”

 

 


	11. History 2.0.com

_Did he just “you people” me?_

 

“I am definitely NOT calling you Phil!”

“Well, have it your way. Everyone calls me Phil.” He shrugged. “Want a smoke?” He pulled out a packet of Gauloises.

“No…thank you…”

“I bet you are freaked? Don’t be. It’s all very simple.” He leaned back and smiled lighting his cigarette with a monographed Zippo, “I lived on your side for like the last four years.”

“On our side? Where?” admittedly a dumb question under the circumstances, but walk in my shoes for a moment please…

“Oh lots of places. First, Madrid of course, where I was recruited. I was a bit like you. Still figuring it out trying to blend in. England—mostly London—after that. Did some of my best work there. I was in New York for a while. Definitely better energy than L.A., if I may say so. San Francisco was not bad either. Made a couple of trips to Tokyo for a few weeks at a time. Loved Berlin! Quite the art scene! The last two months I was stationed in Paris though.”

“Stationed? By whom?”

“Wish I knew really. I get my orders, tickets, credit cards, cell phones, and the rest from that tool, Vargas who works for HR. There is no point asking questions. I am told where to go and I go. Far better than braving it out in some torture chamber for four years, don’t you think, and then going bat crazy over the Queen? Who thought of that terrible character arch?”

“And while on the other side…you did what?” the conversation was veering in strange directions.

“Mostly passing information to people or placing it, although I also mined information myself,” he lit another cigarette.

“What information?”

“Oh you know… Mostly fake historical information from scripts. Sometimes it’s some authentic sounding description of some thing or some character. Rarely, it is an actual thing from a script. I brought over an Anne Boleyn miniature portrait from a Wolf Hall script that never made the final cut into the show. That’s rare. It trended for three days on social media when the portrait was “discovered” (he air-quoted) by those dudes of the Antiques Roadshow. It got a History channel documentary, a county museum exhibit, and a coffee table book. That was my best job! Frankly, I expected that my work with Wolf Hall would have a bigger footprint. So much more authentic than the Tudors! But nothing beats the Tudors for that period. I wonder if I would have made it into Downton Abbey had I stayed in England longer. But they transferred me.”

 

“Are you saying you are part of a gang that steals props from television shows?”

He was mortally offended. “Of course not! First, we are not a gang. We are a start-up. Silicon Valley, baby! What do you think I was doing in San Francisco? Second, props are for production teams and such. We have nothing to do with them or with the actors. We work with the real visionaries: the scriptwriters! We mine all kinds of made up facts from scripts of historical dramas. Who else can do such a job better than characters that exist inside those scripts? They write us; we mine their stories. Fair and balanced.”

 

“And what do you do with these made up facts?”

“Well, HiSTORY 2.0.com—that is us—we sell them out to different media platforms. Mostly social media. It’s a ludicrous business. People share fake facts like crazy and eat them up like candy. It’s even better when history geeks get involved trying to disprove them and then the trolling begins. Do you know how much you can make in advertising for just an hour of trending fake facts that way?”

 

I didn’t.

 

“HiSTORY 2.0.com basically jumped into the whole fake news business from a different angle. Fake historical facts! We have created our own niche in the market!” he sounded very excited.

 

“And, now … you are sent back here?” I ventured.

“Yeah. That sucks. First, obviously, this is too early. Hello, what is this? Season One, Episode One? Richelieu is still around! Second, it states in my contract that I am not coming back. Not even for Season Two. Did you see how they wrote my character? Jeez…. Totally creeped me out! That actor did a great job given what he had to work with. Watched it on Netflix.”

_This must be what a post-modern moment feels like…_

“Apparently your character, Milady, went rogue,” he continued, “which means competition is brewing. We have plans to get into Wall Street. Competition of any kind would be a disaster. They sent me back to figure it out. Also I still need to mine a couple of fake facts from show scripts here. Queen writes that letter to her brother in Season Two. If we ever get there, given this mess now, I am taking that letter and leaving right after that. I am not lingering in Season Two a moment longer than I have to.”

 

“Milady went rogue… how?”

“All I know is she stole some letters supposedly written by Louis to the King of Spain and disappeared to the other side. Now I see she brought you over. And boy are you not her mirror image!”

“Mendoza’s letters!” I had a delayed revelation…

“Yeah, whatever. Can you believe that stupid oaf with like 3 lines of dialogue and one frame showing him dead in a bathtub will potentially make a name for himself as part of “newly discovered historical evidence”? That’s luck for you!”

 

“Well your character was sure given the short end of the straw,” I commiserated, hoping to get as much information as possible now.

“We are about to launch an app!” he continued. “Have people tell us the things they like in their favorite shows so we provide more targeted and customized fake facts. We are launching it together with the Versailles series. Now that series promises to be a goldmine, hopefully as ludicrous as the Tudors!”

 

Goldmines… fake historical facts … Suddenly I had a sinking feeling… “I found a 17th century deed about some land properties in the Court of Miracles in an archive in Harvard….” I stammered.

“Not one of my jobs, sorry! Not sure this was any of us either. Too bold. We prefer antique markets, private collections, and estates of impoverished old aristocrats or old rich New York heiresses to place our fake historical facts. Wow! A Harvard archive no less!” he was intrigued. “What do you do? In real life, I mean.”

“I teach 17th century French economy at Sorbonne. I just got the job. And I suspect, I am about to lose it.” I wanted to cry.  

“A university professor, eh? Well, this was meant for you then. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to lure you into this script. As for losing your job… Don’t fret. Think positively. You may still go back,” he was trying to be nice.

 

“And how would I do this? How exactly do you move between the two sides, then?” I thought it was worth to try getting a straightforward answer at least!

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Oh you mean the portals? I don’t know. I am told where to go and I go there.”

 

“So returning to the place where you entered…does not help?” Oh no, this is not happening to me!

“Is that what you were trying to do? Go back to the place where you entered hoping to get out? Where was that? The old catacomb? That is not how it works. They open portals wherever and whenever they want; it is not up to you or me.”

 

I seriously thought I saw my entire life flashing before my eyes. “Oh my goodness. What? I am stuck here?”

“Not the best place, but I can think of worse. Here’s what I know. Portals open for one person at a time. We, agents, don’t open them. Someone up the ladder makes the decision. You just go where they tell you to go. Whoever opened your portal had nothing to do with us. For that I am sure. Whoever they are, they may open another one for you if they want you back. On the other hand the real Milady, and she is something that woman, may have just trapped you here for her own reasons. I am so very sorry.”

 

“I need a drink,” I was devastated….

“I know the feeling. I wish I could buy you one,” he smiled.

I stood up. “Maybe we will have a drink together some day on the other side?”

 

“Sure, why not? Positive thinking always!” he winked. “So what should I call you?” 

“Milady de Winter.” I liked him fine, but I was not giving him my name.

 

“Well, as it pleases you! Take care Milady!” he smiled and bowed in an old fashioned way.

“You too, Phil!”


	12. I want candy!

“Shit, shit, shit, shit… Thanks grandma!” I was back now, inside the Louvre, walking in the fancy dress, with all kinds of pearls dangling from my wig muttering to myself. I needed a drink. And a cigarette (oh why, oh why, did I refuse the offer?). And chocolate. And to punch something. So, inevitably, I bumped onto someone.

“My apologies, Madame!” he exclaimed. 

I stopped and composed myself, “Oh no Monsieur, no need to apologize.”

 

He looked exactly like the actor from the show! He was in his twenties, olive skinned, with straight dark brown long hair, and a pair of the most intelligent, animated, and expressive, chestnut eyes. He was not very tall, maybe a bit taller than me, if I was not wearing these ridiculous shoes. I feel awkward saying this because now I have students his age, but he looked adorable. With a capital A. Scratch that. With all capital letters. He was wearing a Red Guard uniform.

He bowed politely. “I hope Madame you are not feeling unwell?”

_He thinks I am bat crazy._

I feigned an indifferent little laugh. “Oh no indeed, I am absolutely fine, Monsieur. I was just walking back to find my carriage. What a glorious day today, for their Majesties and for France!”

“Indeed, Madame! But I am being inappropriate. Permit me to introduce myself.” He bowed an elegant deep bow, almost like a dancer. “I am Chevalier d’Artagnan. I have the great honor of serving His Eminence the Cardinal!”

 

_Hello there! Finally!_

 

I put on my most seductive voice as I curtsied. “I am Milady de Winter, Monsieur. What an honor to meet such a valiant and loyal knight of France!”

He was definitely proud, and clearly liked to be admired. “His Eminence has spoken to me of your beauty and intellect Madame, but I am at a loss of words now that I finally meet you!”

_Smooth. Also: terrible liar._

“Oh Monsieur, I too have heard so much about your accomplishments and delightful character, and now find myself entirely enchanted after this unintended encounter,” I asserted.

“Madame may I entreat you then, to remain! I have the honor of being invited to attend a private celebration at Court this very afternoon. It would be indeed a delight and pleasure if you could join me.”

_Wait. This is not how it’s done! You can’t just invite people! But I am done arguing history while stuck in a television script in the era of fake facts!_

 

“Oh I would be honored and delighted, Monsieur!” I smiled.

Well, why not? First, I needed a drink. Second, what better opportunity than this would I ever have to get him and Constance Bonacieux together? Third, I was staying here forever so why not attend a party, and a royal one for that matter? Fourth, he was absolutely charming. Maybe this should be first…

 

He gallantly offered me his arm and I took it with pleasure.

“This way Madame,” he smiled, leading me to a different part of the Louvre.

 


	13. Puttin' on the Ritz

Here is what I know now: never invite yourself to a royal reception if you plan to drink. Even if it is just one drink; or three. Even if that royal reception is happening within a script and attended by fictional characters. Better go home. Cinderella is a cautionary tale.

 

But I get ahead of myself.

 

I walked into a large well-lit room with gold-plated walls on the arm of Monsieur d’ Artagnan, who was one of the two people honored in this private reception by the King and Queen. The other was Rochefort. He was there too. Affable, and social, and working the courtiers and the two Majesties as no man who “hated crowds” ever could. The perfect salesman. The Cardinal had withdrawn, but Treville was there. He was not working the room in any way. Poor man looked rather glum and overpowered by Rochefort. No one can work a room like Phil. I bet gives TedX talks on how “Sales is a Romance.” Porthos was engaged in conversation with a pretty woman and Aramis with two. At the corner of my eye I noticed Athos standing behind his Captain observing the gathered courtiers with his usual furrowed brow. He noticed me. I got The Stare. My life was complete. There was music coming from somewhere behind a screen decorated with a painting showing Apollo chasing Daphne.

The King’s voice sounded excited “Ah the hero of the hour! Monsieur d’ Artagnan, please join us!” He was standing with Rochefort and the Queen. Madame Bonacieux was also at some distance behind the King, and—finally!—a servant holding a tray of glasses filled with something that looked alcoholic. Maybe wine? I picked one and downed it hastily as the King turned towards me. It was something like champagne only disgustingly sweet.

 

“Madame…?”

I curtsied an extremely awkward deep curtsy swallowing fast: “Milady de Winter Your Majesty!”

“We are delighted Madame,” he retorted magnanimously. Wait…was he winking at me? Thankfully Rochefort interrupted with some inane observation about how music is more pleasurable when played by French musicians, compared to the Spanish. The King agreed. The Spanish, he contended, have no taste for music or the arts.

 

“I would not recommend it Madame,” a woman’s voice behind me sounded menacing. Madame Bonacieux. She was holding a delicate fan, which she used with great dexterity to mask her face as she spoke.

“I beg your pardon. Madame…?” I feigned ignorance, picking up a second glass of that sweet stuff from the servant’s tray. He eyed me in a meaningful manner but I ignored him.

“For a stand-in, you are a terrible liar, Madame” she whispered. “You know who I am and I know who you are, so let me just make this very clear. He flirts incessantly but don’t you dare spoil this for me.”

 

I swallowed the sweet liquid, which was already giving me a headache.

 

“Well, in that case, Madame, let me also be clear,” I whispered back. “You would not be here now had I not spoken to the Cardinal. And I suspect you know this.” 

She fanned herself in a very deliberate manner. “Indeed, I do and I have wondered why you did it.”

“Because you have to meet d’ Artagnan. For goodness sake, you are supposed to marry him!” I was feeling wobbly. 

“I would not be against such an outcome at some point in a future script, but right now I am at a crucial turning point in my career” she conceded. “He is indeed as cute as a button. I can see him doing great things for advertising.” 

“Oh great! You are one of those people. A HiSTORY 2.0.com manager or something?” I picked up a third glass at which point the servant politely withdrew with his tray.

 

She stopped fanning herself as if she were deeply offended. “Absolutely not! That is my dear good for nothing husband, who stole my idea and run with it recruiting a bunch of guys who cannot find their way out of a paper bag like Rochefort and Vargas. HiSTORY 2.0.com indeed! Is that even a marketable brand name?”

“Wait, you are the competition?”

“I am the one who pioneered the idea. Competition, eh? Is that what they call us? We are their doom not their competition!” she rolled out her fan aggressively.

“Who is ‘we’? It is not a royal ‘we’ is it?” I think I was drunk.

“Don’t be absurd. Of course not! Although Anne just joined the executive board.” She placed her fan once again strategically over her mouth. “We are a locally based, women-led, small business. No Silicon Valley hipster stuff. Our head quarters are here.”

 

“So Milady… I mean I… I mean she…works for you?” I tried to focus my thoughts but it was difficult.

“Freelance agent. We hoped to recruit her full time. Her HR profile indicated commitment issues but she has an impressive resume. Only Catherine objected but everyone knows she is bitter. We decided to take the risk with the Mendoza letters as you probably know. Milady went rogue. It was a blow; we had a buyer on the other side. Then you showed up and before I know it I have direct access to the King! We could not have asked for better strategic placement.”

 

“I could get Milady back for you… and the letters.” I was definitely drunk.

She slowly closed her fan and turned away. “I will discuss this with the board.”

 

Somewhere around me the King was saying something about shooting rabbits and poets, which apparently both Rochefort and d’ Artagnan found hilarious.

 

“Madame, may I suggest we walk outside to take the air?” inquired a familiar male voice. Athos.

“What air? It is raining!” I exclaimed. I may have been somewhat loud.

“I insist,” he whispered, pulling me gently towards the door.

 

I stumbled along. It was not too far. Found myself in the pouring rain under an arcade of a structure reminiscent of the real Pavillon de l’ Horloge. I admit it; the cold wet air helped a little. The last thing I wanted was some kind of know-it-all comment from Monsieur Nobler-than-thou. He didn’t do it though. He simply helped me stand against the wall.

 

“Stand here and take deep breaths. I will get the horses,” he explained.

 

_Horses?_

 

I have been terrified of horses since I was nine and in summer camp. I had an unfortunate experience jumping over a low fence to impress a bunch of mean girls, which had cost me a broken arm and a very bruised ego. Now I had to ride a horse, in this rain, in this dress, and drunk? Absolutely not! Didn’t I have a carriage somewhere?

 

He returned with a stable boy leading two horses. “I am not riding this!” I blurted out.

The stable boy looked confused. “Perhaps the Madame would like me to saddle another horse?” he asked.

“I think she means she cannot ride horses; any horses, right Madame?” Athos spoke slowly and it was irritating. I was drunk not an idiot.

“I arrived in my carriage young man. So just get my coachman!” I ordered the stable boy, making an effort to sound as majestic as possible.

 

That is the last thing I remember.


	14. Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

I woke up in an unfamiliar room, on a bed that was definitely not the one Milady slept on. My head was hurting so much I could barely open my eyes. The room was sparse, a window on one side and underneath it a plain chair with my fancy dress thrown on it. It was completely ruined. I was wearing only my shift. No wig, which was nowhere to be seen, just my purple streaked bob in full sight. It must have been mid-morning, or so I gathered. From the open window I could hear horses neighing, the clanging of metal, and male voices speaking. I could smell leather, gunpowder, and hay in the air. The Musketeer garrison. I could remember absolutely nothing from what had transpired besides standing in the rain under an arcade at the Louvre, and then some strange dream with Tom Burke showing up with my dad for my book reading at a gilded hall in the Court of Miracles.

The door opened. Athos walked in. I kid you not he was carrying a bowl of soup! My head hurt too much to enjoy the absurdity of the moment. “Feeling better?” he asked softly sitting on the side the bed. “You slept for an entire day…”

 

“What on earth was that drink?” I interrupted.

“Anjou wine. It can do that to people. Especially when they are not used to it.”

Even with that headache I could not keep a straight face. My life had turned into a big fat Dumas irony. I decided then and there to start reading Jane Austen.

 

He looked pensive. “I should tell you I met your Gascon yesterday, while you were…here.”

“And…?” 

“Don’t worry,” he smiled, “we did not fight. We just talked. He is a talented young man. Ambitious. You were right. He could have been a perfect Musketeer.”

“Could have been…?”

“The Cardinal promoted him to lieutenant in the Red Guard. It takes years for people to achieve what this young man has achieved in just a few weeks. The Cardinal is not a fool. This young man is gifted and unfortunately for us, he serves the Cardinal now.”

 

“I should return your friend’s pistol then….”

“Oh yes,” he grinned, “that too. I fear Aramis might be…moving on but better take care of loose ends…”

I smiled back. “Yes, let’s just do that.”

 

“I am glad you are feeling better,” he said. I will leave this here for you. He set the bowl of soup on a little table next to the bed.

 

That is when I saw it. My phone. Right there on the table. My mysteriously functioning phone, where not only had I recorded this entire story, but where my life for the past year or so was also stored: photos and videos of family gatherings in Rhode Island, my brother’s wedding in DC, my PhD graduation (and the party afterwards!), moving to Paris, photos with students and colleagues…Everything! I should have cleaned up the phone, I know, but I never got to it. And he had an entire day to look at it! On the other hand, maybe he just removed it from the dress and never touched the screen?

I was certain he knew I was looking at the gadget on the table and I was certain he could tell I was panicking. But he said absolutely nothing as if the phone was not even there. He showed me a small pile of clothes on the foot of the bed instead. “These are for you. Best we could do here. We do not carry lady’s clothes but these will do to get you home. There is a pair of boots also for you at the side of your bed and a hat to hide the hair…you know…. Feel free to stay though until you feel well enough to walk,” he said politely. No Stare, no nasty comments, no quips, no poignant observations about my un-ladylike behavior or my purple streaked hair. Nothing.

 

I was officially panicked.

 

The outfit was nice: breeches (finally I could wear pants!), a clean shirt, a brown leather doublet, and a leather belt. I walked out of the room onto a balcony overlooking the main courtyard of the garrison.

“You scared us all a little! Great to see you on your feet!” Porthos was standing at the balcony too, drinking from a cup. “Musketeer outfit looks good on you!” he joked. He looked radiant and joyous.

“You seem like a happy man!” I observed.

“Very happy indeed. I am getting married,” he beamed. “Her name is Alice. She was at the Notre-Dame-en-l'Île, that day all three of us met you. Remember? Her husband died a year ago and it was her first day out of mourning. He was the head of the Candle-makers’ Guild. She was with me at the reception at the Louvre the other day. You know… where you…”

“Yes… I think I saw her… Congratulations! ” It was embarrassing enough finding myself on a bed in the Musketeer garrison without having to recall that miserable day at the Louvre.

“She was not sure she liked my soldiering,” he continued, “but after being invited to a private reception with the King…well she changed her mind!”

Totally wrong timing plot-wise and the wrong character, but who cares. All you had to do was look at his handsome happy face. I have no regrets about that!

 

“Porthos, stop telling everyone about your rich widow and let’s move!” Aramis stepped onto the balcony as well. He looked as flawless as the day I met him in that church only less formal. He smiled sincerely, a friendly look in his eyes this time, rather than contempt.

“Good day, Madame, I hope you are feeling better,” he bowed touching the brim of his hat.

“Good day, Monsieur. Yes, thank you. You shall have your pistol by the end of this morning.”

“Oh yes, that…” he sounded slightly embarrassed, “well Madame Bessett and I…”

“My friend Aramis realized the error of his ways…” Porthos grinned, interrupting him. “All right, Aramis, to the Chatelet we go!” he urged his friend down the stairs.

 

“The Chatelet? Why?” I cried. It all sounded familiar…

“It’s Good Friday, Madame,” replied Porthos. “The Queen will be there, handing money and pardons as is the custom.”

 

I admit. The historian in me had always thought the Aramis-Queen and Dauphin plot twist was unbelievably absurd. But after all that had happened and was happening here… really what was the point of bothering? So I did it. I stepped at the top of the stairs and called out to Aramis. “Monsieur, make sure the Queen is safe!”

 

He stopped short looking puzzled. “Of course Madame, that is what we are there for.”

“No Monsieur. I mean, you. Personally. _You_ make sure nothing happens to her.” I hope I was convincing enough. He bowed again, touching the brim of his hat as he quickly descended to the yard.

 

“I will walk you home, Madame.” Athos was standing behind me.

“Are you not going to the Chatelet instead?” I inquired.  

“I will, but first I will walk you home. The Captain knows.” Athos looked thoughtful and even more serious than his usual serious self. “May I ask you Madame, what is a one-dimensional character?”

“A poorly written one, Monsieur. Not a well thought-out backstory or arch,” I replied, no longer deceiving myself that he had not seen and heard everything on my phone.

He nodded silently as if he understood. We were now the only two people left at the garrison besides some stable boys and the cook.

 

“In the name of His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu!” cried a voice at the gate.

A large, impressive looking, Red Guard was standing there followed by maybe ten or fifteen others.

“Musketeer Athos you are under arrest for violating the King’s edict against dueling. And you Madame! You are under arrest for plotting against His Eminence, the Cardinal Richelieu!”


	15. Le Café Richelieu

Athos shoved a pistol in my hand. “Can you shoot?”

“No! And I am not shooting at anyone!” I exclaimed.

He rolled his eyes ( _I swear_!). “Then run back upstairs, into the Captain’s office. There is a back door. I will stall them here!” He drew his sword.

 

“That is madness! You cannot fight all these people by yourself!”

“Just go!” he yelled pushing me behind him.

I ran as fast as I could up the stairs and onto the balcony. I could hear gunshots and the clanging of swords. “He is going to be killed!” That is all I could think of. I pushed the door open and stepped into Treville’s room. And then, nothing. Just a blinding light.

 

Artificial light…

The buzzing of an air condition unit…

Shelves…

And somewhere behind the shelves, a worktable with a 17th century map of Paris laid on it and my laptop still running.

 

I pulled out my phone. Same day as the day I saw Milady standing here. Just 25 minutes later. One minute for every day on the other side… “Low battery” flashed three times and the phone was dead.

I gathered my things. The Librarian’s (“Call me Marcel”) desk was empty. It was at that point that the elevator doors opened and a professional looking young woman walked in.

“I am so sorry, Dr. Mordaunt!” she exclaimed. “We had an urgent phone call from our librarian. Apparently he felt very ill during lunch and had to take the rest of the day off. I arrived as soon as possible.” She acted as if I was not wearing breeches and a leather doublet. On the other hand, she had probably seen her share of eccentric academics.

“I will just go for the day,” I felt exhausted and devastated. All I could think of was Athos fighting all those Red Guards alone. Was he killed? It was my fault of course. Was that why Milady sent me to the other side, to get him killed? Did any of this really happen? I wish I had dreamed it all. But my clothes were proof to the opposite.

“Excuse me. Do you have any contact information for the librarian?” I asked the young woman.

 

_I am so coming after you.._

“I am afraid Dr. Mordaunt we do not give out the information of our staff. I can give you his business card with his professional email address and phone number here.” She went up to the desk and picked up a card.

“Marcel Saracen, Librarian and Curator, National Archive.”

 

Well, that was a start of sorts, although I seriously doubted he would show up here ever again.

 

I needed to breathe fresh air. I needed to walk. It was the strangest feeling stepping into the warm daylight. I was a bit overdressed for June but it mattered little. I started walking, rediscovering familiar scents and sounds of the city: the tourist bustle, the cars, the street cafes, the shoppers… I did not have an exact destination. I walked mindlessly for a while, more than half an hour, until I realized I was at Rue de Rivoli, a few blocks away from the Louvre. And then I knew exactly where I was going…

I was going to have a strong coffee at the only place one could possibly go after having been summoned to answer for treason before the Cardinal.

The café inside the Richelieu wing at the Louvre…

It was a busy museum day but the café was not as packed, lunch hour having just passed. I sat by one of the windows that overlooked the courtyard.

 

“Excuse me, is the seat taken?” a male voice.

Familiar.

Athos!

 

He was standing there, clean-shaven, wearing dark jeans, a plaid shirt, and a dark blue blazer. He sat down before I answered his question.

“You really need to work on coordinating your outfits with the correct time period.” He smiled to the waitress. “I will have an espresso and my friend here…”

“A double one….” I stammered.

 

He laughed. “I think it is your turn to ask me if I am alive and my turn to say obviously…”

“Are you? I mean… is that you?”

 

“Oh yes! Very much me and very much alive. Have been here for almost a month now.” He relaxed back on his chair.

“Time works differently…” I ventured.

“Yes it does. But at least you and I find ourselves finally at the same time-length. Or is it wave length?” he grinned to the waitress as our coffees arrived.

 

“Are you working for the HiSTORY 2.0 guys then?”

“You mean Bonacieux at Silicon Valley? Hell no! Although I admit Rochefort helped me adjust here at first. He is a good guy. A bit intense, but a good soul. Anyway. No, I am not working for Bonacieux and I am not working for his wife either. Never get involved with people who are having marital problems don’t you agree?” he winked.

 

“How did you get here? And how did I get here?”

“I think you persuaded Constance and company to give you a chance. The Anjou wine might have helped.” He sipped his coffee. “As for me, it’s a long story, but basically, I am here to make sure you do your job.”

 

“So, you work for Constance now?”

“No, I am what they call a freelance agent. Just like your rogue grandmother.”

 

“She is not really my grandmother. My grandmother is a retired music teacher and lives in Florida,” I sipped my coffee. I had missed this taste so much! “Just some tentative ancestry that my dad discovered with the historical Milady. He has been into the whole genealogy thing for a while.”

 

“Well you look like her. Sometimes…” a playful smile was forming at the corners of his mouth.

“True!” I laughed.

“You should have seen me my first week here,” he chuckled, “hopeless!”

 

“How did you know I would come here, to this café?”

“Oh, Rochefort told me about it. It is a favorite among agents apparently. I just took a wild guess, knowing your propensity for irony. I was going to try the two Dumas cafes if this one failed. But here you are. By the way. What is your name? We have never been properly introduced.”

 

“Frances Mordaunt. My parents thought they were clever. That’s the name of Milady’s son in Dumas of course.” I shrugged.

“I just read Twenty Years After. Not bad. He takes liberties with history though. I am Athos de la Fere, as you know.” We shook hands over the table. “Well professor, if you had your coffee time to move on with our little mission? How about stopping by your house so you can change into something more 21st century?”

“Are you going to walk me home, Monsieur?”

“Madame, how about we take the Metro this time?”


End file.
